


On Muninn's Wing

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (on the Viking side of things), F/F, NSFW illustration inside, Post-Game/Endgame Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: After matters settle across England and Ravensthorpe, Eivor's mind turns to the future for her and Randvi.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 96





	On Muninn's Wing

**Author's Note:**

> For ImprobableIntellect! The art is by Abysmal0 (https://twitter.com/abysmal0).
> 
> I found a wild mix of research on Viking weddings, so I used a combination of what was established by (most of) the historical record and then picked a few other pieces that seemed to fit.

Wintering in England was a cold and damp reckoning, but Eivor treasured the sight of ice and snow, for it made the land feel more like home. It too was home because of the many pyres lit with treasured bodies placed upon them—Hunwald, Hjorr, noble Soma—and a reminder that Odin could call his champions to Valhalla from anywhere, no matter how strange or distant the place. 

Ravensthorpe was made greater by the sweat and work of everyone that called the village their own, building walls and further construction to steady against the encroachment of frozen mud and chilling rain throughout the season, although Eivor's favorite was certainly the bathhouse. She didn't mind the English waters as such—they were certainly warmer than Norway's—but it was difficult to wash clean when there was so much dirt and grass in the way of things. So the house of stones made for a peaceful sanctum in sluggish weeks, when the nights were grim enough to ice the mead in one's cup.

Working to give her people such gifts was one of the easier parts of being jarlskona. Eivor much preferred it to the incessant chain of letters and other messages passed back and forth across the country, asking for her opinion—and often, the aid of hardened warriors—to keep control of newly claimed lands and titles. She would mediate a thousand quarrels between Holger and Rowan if it meant escaping another long night devoted to translating a king's atrocious excuse for script by candlelight.

Yet through all of it was Randvi. To think she had survived so much war abroad and nearly lost everything at odds with Sigurd before Basim's betrayal exposed his true colors left Eivor pale, but when the other woman had offered her heart in the aftermath, the sparks of their private affair fed the fire of greater affections, forging a love that couldn't be broken. Eivor couldn't imagine sleeping in the jarl's quarters without her, not sitting upon the throne without knowing Randvi was but a few feet behind, her brilliant mind keeping Ravensthorpe in order.

The other woman lay beside her now in bed, back pressed flush with her stomach, limbs entangled with the furs. She slept peacefully, hair unbound and askew, a few stray red strands darting across both brow and cheek. Eivor reached over to brush them away from her face, and the light touch stirred her from slumber, green eyes drifting open. 

A small smile curved Randvi's lips as she turned over to face her, shifting close to ensure no distance lingered between their bodies. "Good morning, Eivor. What has your brow so tense at an early hour?"

Eivor frowned. "Is it so?"

"Like this," Randvi whispered, drawing a line over black ink and a blonde brow with her fingertips. "Little wrinkles of thought, all bunched together."

"I am considering good things, not ill at ease," she replied, a soft laugh rising in her throat. "I was thinking about you."

The hand on her face stilled, and Randvi's eyes warmed with curiosity. "What about me?"

Eivor bit her tongue. The matter at hand was something she had considered throughout winter in silence, without offering even a hint that it so often circled her skull. For a moment, the only thing she could think to do was touch Randvi in turn, as if the words would jump from her hands to the other woman's cheek and find a home in her throat, spreading across each shoulder and sink into faintly freckled skin. 

Unfortunately, the gods had given the Wolf-Kissed a gift for speech, and not magic to divine the thoughts in the minds of others. The only thing she could do was be honest, and pray that Randvi took her at her word, no matter the result.

"I was wondering if you had ever considered getting married," Eivor said, only to quickly amend, "Again, I mean. To me."

Randvi blinked twice in quick succession before her eyes shot wide. "Eivor, could we? Would Freyja even—"

"If the gods disapproved of us, I think we would know by now," Eivor interrupted. They certainly spent enough time in her head for other reasons. "And everyone in Ravensthorpe is well aware of who sleeps in my bed."

Heat splashed across Randvi's face before she wrangled her composure back into place. "Well, that would have been difficult to hide, considering our first time was on the war table."

Eivor flashed her teeth in a smirk. "I seem to recall that is what you asked for."

That earned a gentle smack to the shoulder, but Randvi smiled too, her body relaxing by degrees. "And I only regret doing so because the bed is far more comfortable. I felt you in my hips for a week." 

The heated amusement in Eivor's eyes earned a flustered huff from Randvi, who entwined her fingers with the golden drape of hair where it gathered on the pillow. She fell silent long enough that Eivor frowned, internally berating herself for raising such a weighty subject without forethought. After Sigurd, she would understand if Randvi despised the very concept.

"I will not bring it up again," Eivor said quietly. "I meant only for you to know that I would happily be bound to you for life, if you wished it."

"Oh, I—" Randvi startled, clearing her throat. "By Odin, I wasn't refusing you, Eivor. Forgive me, I was thinking about how much planning it would take."

They had months before fall approached, more than enough time to gather what was needful. Hope surged in Eivor's chest, although she did her best to temper the feeling. "So is that a yes, Randvi? It would be a crime to guess."

"Ah, because you always need the bride's consent," Randvi teased, leaning in until her lips were but a breath away from Eivor's. "Isn't that so?"

Before she could answer, Randvi displaced the furs around them and climbed on top of her, knees resting on either side of her hips. There was nothing separating their bodies but familiar skin, the wealth of scars and ink they both shared, and Randvi leaned down to claim her mouth with a deep, searching kiss. Eivor answered like a surging wave, arms slipping around Randvi's back to draw her down and keep her there.

"It's a yes, my noble jarlskona," Randvi whispered against her mouth. "And what a blessing it is that you can't be punished for stealing my virtue."

Eivor laughed, a low rumble in her throat. "Imagine how long that trial would take."

Randvi managed a straight face for a breath before collapsing into laughter, face pressed against just underneath Eivor's chin. "You are insufferable. And it is far too endearing."

With a careful twist of her hips, Eivor reversed their positions, laying Randvi out across the bed. She saw Randvi's breath catch in her throat, desire flashing through her eyes like fire kissing steel, and leaned down until their lips met again. This time Eivor lingered, drawing out quiet gasps from Randvi until the other woman grasped at her ribs, clinging tight.

"So who is going to give you away?" Eivor asked. What remained of Randvi's family was across the ocean, and while widows could rely on the women in their family for such a task, divorce brought a certain complexity. "I could ask Fenrir to sit by your side."

"Your  _ wolf? _ " Randvi sputtered. "You tease me so. Tell me why I shouldn't toss you naked out of the longhouse, hm?" 

"I suppose you could," Eivor answered with a grin. "Although it is nothing everyone has not seen before, courtesy of strong drink."

Another laugh spilled from Randvi's lips, warm with joy. "How am I to control you when we are wed, when you could shame the shameless?" 

"You can't. I am the Wolf-Kissed, and I bow to none." She claimed another deep kiss from Randvi's mouth, then smiled against the softness there. "But if I fear anything, it is wounding your heart. That chain binds me tighter than the Fen-Dweller's fetters. Run your fingers along a single shining link, and I'm yours."

"Then be mine," Randvi whispered, combing her fingers back through blonde tangles. They would both need new braids for the ceremony, more suited to those bound by Freyja's blessing and Odin's oath. "Be mine, Eivor."

She was, and gladly so, spending the better part of the morning satisfying Randvi until her wife-to-be gently nudged them towards other responsibilities. Eivor broke her fast and plunged her face in water cold enough to wake the dead, then made an early morning round of Ravensthorpe, ensuring everyone had what was needful. Jarlskona or not, Eivor refused to think herself above scaling a fish or tying new knots on a sail when it was asked for, else she risk falling into the same distant, power-hungry madness that had claimed so many clansmen and kings around her.

Besides, it was a good excuse to see what supplies the village lacked and what remained in abundance now that spring was breaking through, for twice that would be needed for a proper wedding ceremony. 

Eivor made her way to the brewery first, hammering a fist against the wooden wall to summon Tekla. The stolid woman emerged a moment later, arms full of a sack bulging with barley, slender threads of grain poking through the weave.

"Eivor!" Tekla smiled and set the sack down, before turning back inside to fetch another. "Dare I ask why you're here this early? Should I crack open a cask to ease an aching skull?"

"No, no hair of the dog for me this day." She held out her arms for the second sack, hauling it with ease to where Tekla needed it to rest. "I need bride's-ale. And a lot of it. You know how much I drink, and Randvi can handle twice that with a smile."

Tekla nearly dropped what she was holding, clutching the barley to her chest at the last moment before it slipped. "A wedding? By Tyr, you would make an honest woman out of her, no matter who protested, wouldn't you?"

"It's an honor she deserves," Eivor countered. "Do you object?"

"Not at all." Tekla laughed, then shoved the third sack into Eivor's grasp. "But I'll need far more  _ bere _ than this, if you expect that much ale. Talk to the farming folk, or Yanli if they don't think the yield will be enough. Everything needs to be in the cask early, for it to be ready by fall."

After hauling around enough barley to break an ox's back, Eivor did just that. Plenty of seeds had been saved through winter for a proper sowing, and she was promised a double harvest, so long as Ravensthorpe had the hands to reap it. Eivor knew she could cajole the local Jomsvikings into picking up a scythe or two when the time came, but even if all the work had to be carried on her own back, it would be done.

Gunnar was the next she made to see, approaching the blacksmith as subtle swirls of smoke spilled from the roof. The forge wasn't awake quite yet, but the man himself was conscious enough, feeding bits of wood into the fire as until tinder ate through the green edges of new branches, finally catching aflame.

"You have a war-dog's look in your eye," Gunnar declared by way of greeting, then flashed what remained of his teeth in a pleased grin. "How many swords do we need, and whose blood are we shedding this day?"

"Only two blades, but they must be finer than any other," Eivor said. "One fit to Randvi's hand and one fit to my own."

Confusion creased his brow. "I know she has longed to fight, but you? Have I not given you the finest spear of my life already? What need do you have of a sword?"

"Not for battle, old man." She clapped a fond hand against Gunnar's broad shoulder. "To trade when she and I honor each other before Freyja."

He blinked, then cackled. "Oh! I see. I suppose there aren't any you can steal from your ancestor's grave in a place like this."   


Eivor thought of the mighty hammer she had drawn from the ice and snow in Norway, one that crackled with Thor's blessing, but using such a weapon could split the roof of the longhouse in two. "Indeed. I've sent plenty of Englishmen to their dead fathers, but none of mine are buried here."

"Then a new sword I shall make." Gunnar brushed the ash off his fingertips, then stroked the dark curve of his beard. "Does Randvi want me to melt down the one she took from Sigurd? It feels like a bad omen to keep them in the same place."

It only seemed fitting, considering her brother had abandoned its twin in Ravensthorpe without a thought of how such an act might look. "I will ask her. But I would appreciate if you did."

"Out with the old first." He grunted in approval. "Then I can start on something new for you both. Send Randvi down here later so I can measure her hand, yes?"

Working such metal to a clean and sharp edge would take time, but there was plenty to spare. Eivor left Gunnar to his work, and made her rounds through the rest of Ravensthorpe, asking questions about fattening livestock and cajoling Falka until the seer promised to search her visions for any signs of divine displeasure. 

By the late afternoon, it seemed most of the village knew what was planned, but Eivor had gotten distracted by a request to patch a few fishing nets, and sat with her boots hanging over the dock, weaving new threads through old rope. She thought nothing of an hour until a familiar hand fell onto her shoulder.

"Eivor." Randvi leaned into her field of view, a brow raised. "You are doing my work for me."

With a frown, Eivor looked down in confusion at the net in her lap, then back up. "What?"

"Not the rope." Wry amusement flashed through green eyes. "Bothering everyone in the village to prepare like a woman gone mad, when I have lists of our supplies for months to come."

"Ah." Eivor cleared her throat. "I thought for once, you shouldn't have to do all the work."

"Which is one of the reasons I'm marrying you," Randvi declared with a smile, "but a mind, like a sword, needs a whetstone to grind against and find its sharpness. I would much rather be busy than bored, and I relish having more of a say in this ceremony than I did in my first one."

Instinct bid Eivor to open her mouth and protest, but experience caught her tongue. "Very well. Excitement got the better of me."

"You are more a puppy than a wolf sometimes." A hum of amusement brewed in Randvi's throat before she leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Eivor's hair. "And you had better throw yourself in a bath before coming back into the longhouse. You smell like old grain, Gunnar's forge, and every four-legged creature wandering about this place."

Perhaps baking under the sun hadn't been the best idea. "Will you be joining me?"

Randvi stood up, her hand slipping from its ledge on Eivor's armored shoulder. "Perhaps. You must be awfully sore after such efforts."

The spring brought great promise, but Eivor knew better than to rely on nature's generosity when a storehouse could be burned to the ground at a moment's notice. She carried the torch in hand instead, leading raids throughout the summer, not only for the glory of the Raven clan, but to remind their neighbors that even a víkingr at peace was a force to be reckoned with. By the time fall approached, every warrior under her banner was well-blooded and satisfied, leaving them keen to help with the harvest season.

Everything was as it should be, and yet it was that notion that kept her wide awake the night before she and Randvi were to be wed. The latter slept against her side, exhausted from meeting with half the village the night before, but Eivor thought that was for the best. She didn't want Randvi to think the wild energy coursing through her was doubt, when it was more of a wary instinct about something going awry. They had both lost so much in recent years, that honest joy felt fleeting.

Eventually, she slept in fits and starts, but was easily stirred from slumber when Gunnar came to fetch her. The gray of early dawn still pervaded the sky, but the chill snapped Eivor to full consciousness as she tugged on her boots and stepped out of the longhouse. Tove would be along shortly to do the same for Randvi, as ritual insisted those to be wed were kept apart until the proper cleansing and change of hair and dress was performed.

"You had better scrub properly in there," Gunnar teased as they approached the bathhouse. "I remember you chastising me for a single mote of dirt behind my ears before I got married."

"Because your ears are too big to miss," Eivor shot back with a grin. "And you had better bathe well too. I won't have my wedding smelling like ash and sweat, old man."

Despite their humor, serious focus drew a veil over Eivor's mind as she stepped over warm stones to the low circle of the bath. Water flowed from a spring underneath, holding the heat of the bath, and she stripped again in haste, knowing different clothes would swiftly arrive to replace them. Gunnar sat outside its edge as she unbound her hair and untangled the mess of sleep, offering a hard brick of soap after a thorough soak.

"You look like you're about to face down Ragnarok," Gunnar muttered after Eivor dunked herself in the water again, washing away heavy suds. "There is nothing to worry about. Everything is in order."

Tekla appeared out of the corner of her eye, delivering a woven tunic the color of Sleipnir's hide and a set of darker trousers. She set a pair of calfskin shoes besides them and offered Eivor a wink before vanishing out of sight. Everything was newly made, free from blood and strife, as befit a day of peace.

"Help me with the braids," she called to Gunnar, "or we'll be here for hours."

"Because you are a perfectionist with such things," he countered, but shifted up onto his knees to aid her. "It is simply hair! You should be smart and get rid of all of it like me."

"As I recall, it fell right out of your skull." Eivor chuckled low, fingers working in quick, tight movements to bind one light strand to another. "I cannot be both proud and wed without a proper look, unlike some."

Gunnar grunted in response, but provided fair assistance nonetheless. Once she was dressed, he offered the sword that had been made for the occasion, and Eivor set the strap of the scabbard low on her hip for an easy draw. The sun reached its high place in the sky as she stepped away from the bath and towards the open grass where the ceremony would be held.

A mighty altar was the centerpiece, with two Ravensthorpe farmers minding the sow and goat that were to be sacrificed. Everyone in the village was in attendance, chatting among themselves with barely repressed fervor. They parted when Eivor approached, but she made it only a few steps before the sight of Randvi stopped her short.

She was always beautiful, but there was simply something different seeing the warm and red wealth of her hair tied back, framing every subtle wonder in her face; the fullness of her lips and graceful bridge of her nose, runes inscribed upon temple and cheek in lines of sacred black ink. Tekla and Tove had chosen the bridal clothes well, for the blue of Randvi's tunic put the sky itself to shame, and accents of perfectly tanned leather cradled the sword that rest at her side.

"Stunned like Thor's hammer struck from behind!" Gunnar laughed, low in his belly, and slapped Eivor on the back. "Remember how to walk again, Wolf-Kissed. You won't be wed without the rings exchanged."

Randvi smiled at her, eagerness clear in the faint spread of heat across both cheeks, and it was that which inspired Eivor to walk again, taking her place at the other woman's side. A hush fell over the crowd as Falka raised her hands for silence, then gestured for the first sacrifice. 

Eivor watched as the blade came down, but the seer was both quick and merciful, with scarcely an extra drop of blood spent upon the earth. The sow fell to the same simple fate, and after a long moment of observation, Falka nodded sharply. "This day is blessed. Blood flows true, and from death is another life forged anew."

It was suddenly a hundred times easier to breathe, and Eivor relaxed, a grin rising to her lips. She turned to face Randvi, and it was Birna who approached with the rings, hammered smooth from pure silver. They were offered, one in each hand, and Eivor drew her sword in one careful motion, turning it over to catch one ring on the hilt. A smile conquered Randvi's face as she did the same, holding a careful balance between them.

"Eivor Varinsdottir," she began, "I have consented, before our people and the gods, to be your wife. I have no alliances to offer, no great dowry to my name, but I am humbled by your love and your strength. If you accept this union, then take this ring, and I will bear yours in exchange."

Every proper oath fled Eivor's tongue. Captured by the longing in Randvi's eyes, there was only one thing she could think to say. "I have no more need of alliances. No weight in gold can balance out my heart when I look at you, Randvi. You are all I need. I accept."

Laughs of delight burst from the gathered crowd, and even Falka's crow-eyed countenance relaxed with amusement. They traded rings in one careful pass, and when neither fell, Eivor felt another knot of tension in her chest unravel. She slid the silver onto her finger, but kept the blade in her other hand, even as Randvi sheathed hers to keep.

"Best race to the longhouse quickly," Eivor said, baring her teeth in a smile. "Whoever touches the threshold first has rights to the best of the ale."

It was instant chaos, and she delighted in watching the entire village burst into a sprint, playfully shoving at each other's shoulders to try and get ahead of one another. Eivor gave them a breath's worth of a headstart, but Randvi had taken off like a wild hart, quickly outpacing the warriors and craftsman alike.

With fire in her step, Eivor closed the gap, holding the sword close to her chest as not to expose its edge. A jump brought her to the front of the longhouse, and she forbid any pass with the flat of the blade across the entryway, stopping Randvi short. They exchanged smiles of exertion, but everything was as it should be.

"When you step into this house again, it is as my wife," Eivor declared. "As I carry you past the threat of swords and fire, the cold and terror of the world outside, know that I swear to your safety as long as I draw breath."

"Then I allow you to take me within," Randvi said, eyes bright with excitement. "May no spirit or ill luck bind our path."

Eivor heard Gunnar cackle as she picked up Randvi with a single arm—perhaps she was showing off, a bit—and carefully stepped over the low ledge that separated floor and frame, setting her down on the other side. Everything was steady and clear, earning a cheer from those in attendance, and Tekla quickly pushed her way to the front, intent on opening the casks. There would be ale for any in attendance, and soon the meat of sacrifice would cook above the fire, enough bounty to fill everyone's stomachs twice over.

"There is one more test," Falka called out as she entered the longhouse. "Use your blade, Wolf-Kissed. Show the gods how deep your devotion cuts."

Randvi took a step back to allow her the needed space, and with the whole of Ravensthorpe watching, Eivor thrust the sword as deep into the rooftree as it would go. The weapon was truly well-made; she had strength to spare, but force was barely needed when the metal sliced through the wood like the two were always meant to be joined. There was little exposed save the hilt itself, and Eivor released the blade to prove the cut was true.

"Mated for life, then!" Tove called out, and joyous laughter rang to the rafters. "You can stop grandstanding now, Eivor. We're starving."

"Fight me for the first bite then," Eivor joked, but her eyes were only on Randvi. "That is, after I get my wife a cup of ale."

Randvi smirked. "Make it two. I dare any here to go horn for horn with me."

With such a challenge aired, the celebration began in earnest. Eivor lost track in moments of how many gifts and well-wishes were offered, and ended up piling most of the presents beside the jarl's throne so they could be properly inspected later. Everyone ate and drank with such vigor that games and songs quickly took over the hall, exchanging bets along with tales of past glory, honoring Eivor for her leadership as jarlskona.

Hours and hours burned away before the energy of the party began to decline, with the cold darkness outside calling everyone back to their homes. The most drunk among them had to be carried out by the slightly more sober, but no one complained about the effort, for the longhouse had to be empty for one final ritual.

Eivor sat on her throne with Randvi in her lap, exchanging sips from a waterskin to clear the haze over their heads. When the last of the villagers finally stumbled out, it was surprisingly quiet, with nothing catching the ear save the soft crackle of a fading fire, and the exchange of breath between them.

"Are you going to carry me to bed, Eivor?" Randvi asked, one hand cupping her honored wife's cheek. "I've always been yours, but tonight is different."

With a turn of her head, Eivor pressed a kiss to the center of Randvi's palm. "I could, but... perhaps I can only abide so much tradition."

Curiosity sharpened bold green eyes. "How so?"

"You already sleep in my bed," Eivor whispered, one palm sliding up Randvi's back until reaching the nape of her neck. "But in truth, you rule by my side. Even if I cannot grant you a proper title."

They kissed, slow and lingering, and Randvi whispered against her mouth, "You honor me. Although I have no need of titles."

"But I can show you what it feels like." Eivor's eyes took on a wicked glint. "And I would like to, I think."

Before Randvi could ask her meaning, she claimed her wife's mouth with another kiss, harder and more insistent. Her other arm swept under Randvi's thighs, and Eivor stood from the throne, holding the other woman by embrace alone. With a slow turn, she placed Randvi back down on the hallowed seat, grinning wide as surprise shot through blue eyes.

"Eivor, you—" After hesitating for a deep breath, Randvi's next words came out flustered. "I can't be jarlskona."

"You can be for tonight," Eivor countered, and sunk down to her knees as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "Can't you?"

"So ridiculous," Randvi huffed, even as both hands were already tugging at Eivor's tunic, trying to get it up and over her head. "It only makes me love you more."

The bindings underneath were surrendered to the same fate, while Eivor occupied her hands by tugging off Randvi's boots and setting them aside. She sought the lacing of Randvi's trousers and worked it open with firm tugs, until everything could be pulled down pale hips and bare the prize she sought underneath. Pushing herself between Randvi's knees earned a gasp, and when Eivor looked up, she found an endless longing written on the face she knew so well. They had done such things before, but not like this, not with such meaning.

"Please," Randvi whispered, and Eivor was more than happy to obey.

She nuzzled along the inside of one thigh, lips and tongue following the line of muscle there, and treasured the moan that followed. One hand sneaked under the edge of Randvi's tunic, tracing up her stomach to frame both breasts, seeking the subtle rise of each nipple until it hardened with desire. Randvi tugged her tunic up higher, forcing the fabric out of the way, and moaned again when Eivor's mouth found the curve of her hip, teeth briefly grazing sensitive skin.

Inch by inch, she made a path to the thatch of reddish curls between Randvi's thighs, finding the heat hiding beneath them. There was only a hint of wetness when her tongue first parted Randvi open, but Eivor spread the slick from entrance to clit with another long stroke, and knew even a few drops could lead to an ocean. Randvi shivered, her hips rolling forward to meet the contact, and Eivor smiled when slender fingers slid down into her hair and gripped tight, a silent request for more.

So she offered everything, sucking tenderly at the swell of Randvi's clit, firm thrusts of her tongue that dared deep as she could go, sparing every kiss and caress she could to sensitive folds until arousal smeared across her lips and chin. Soft gasps from above built upon one another into louder sounds of pleasure, until Randvi was practically grinding against Eivor's face, holding the back of her head like it was the only thing keeping them both grounded to the earth.

" _ Eivor _ ." Her name broke into breathless syllables on Randvi's tongue, only to twist into a louder moan when she seized her wife's hips in calloused hands to keep them still.

It was glorious to feel Randvi drip against her mouth, muscles tensing from thigh to hip, pleasure drawn high and inexorable as the tides. Eivor let out a moan of her own, hunting that bliss until Randvi uttered her name again, overwhelmed as release came in a rush of heat against her mouth. She lingered with slower passes of her tongue, refusing to relent until the hold on her hair became demanding enough to speak for itself.

Randvi collapsed back against the throne, panting and eyes glazed, reflecting the last of the fire still burning in the longhouse. Her firm grip relaxed to a far more gentle touch, stroking through Eivor's hair as she let out a soft laugh. "Ah. It is good to rule indeed."

Eivor laughed too, rising up between Randvi's legs to kiss her on the lips. With her hands hooked under each thigh, she lifted the other woman up, bringing them hip to hip as Randvi draped both arms around her shoulders. "Very good. Now I'll take you to bed."

"So I can take care of you?" Randvi teased.

"If you still have the energy," Eivor countered with a sly smile. "Did I exhaust you?"

"You would have to try far harder, Wolf-Kissed." Their lips met again, hard and quick. "But I do dare you to try."

She lay Randvi down across the furs, but didn't make it far before those clever hands tugged her trousers down, and barely managed to kick off her boots to get them the rest of the way. Eivor smiled in the dark as their bodies aligned again, heart feeling impossibly large inside her chest. That she could love so much, and so well, and have it honored in return, was the greatest gift the gods could ever grant.

—


End file.
